FAIRIES 
IND FUSILIERS 



I'OEM.S BY 
ROBERT GRAl'ES 




Class _£.Bl6^iQ_/3 
Book Jj2£_Es, 



GliyrightK?. 



\9j^ 



CiQEXRIGHT OEPOSm 



Fairies 
and Fusiliers 




NEW POETRY : FALL 1918 

By Robert Gra'ves 

FAIRIES AND FUSILIERS 

By Gilbert Frankau 
THE OTHER SIDE 

By Max Eastman 

COLORS OF LIFE 

By Kahlil Gibran 
THE MADMAN 



• • 



Fames 
and Fusiliers 

By 

Robert Graves 




New York 
Alfred A. Knopf 

MCMXVIII 



COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF. Inc. 



0^^ 



©CLA501'7^)3 



b::r lo 1918 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 



r 



TO 

THE ROYAL WELCH FUSILIERS 



/ have to thank Mr, Harold Monro, of The 
Poetry Book Shop, for permission to include 
in this volume certain poems of which he 
possesses the copyright; also the editor of the 
" Nation '* for a similar courtesy. 

R. G. 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


To AN Ungentle Critic 


I 


An Old Twenty-Third Man 


3 


To LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WaR — 


-for 


THE Fourth Time 


5 


Two Fusiliers 


7 


To Robert Nichols 


8 


Dead Cow Farm 


JLO 


Goliath and David 


II 


Babylon 


14 


Mr. Philosopher 


i6 


The Cruel Moon 


i8 


Finland 


19 


A Pinch of Salt 


20 


The Caterpillar 


22 


Sorley's Weather 


24 


The Cottage 


26 


The Last Post 


28 


When Fm Killed 


29 


Letter to S. S. from Mametz Wood 


30 


A Dead Boche 


35 


Faun 


36 


The Spoilsport 


38 


The Shivering Beggar 


40 


Jonah 


43 



John Skelton 


PAGE 

45 


I Wonder What it Feels Like to be 




Drowned ? 


48 


Double Red Daisies 


50 


Careers 


52 


I'd Love to be a Fairy's Child 


54 


The Next War 


55 


Strong Beer 


58 


Marigolds 


60 


The Lady Visitor in the Pauper Ward 


62 


Love and Black Magic 


63 


Smoke-Rings 


65 


A Child's Nightmare 


67 


Escape 


70 


The Bough of Nonsense 


73 


Not Dead 


76 


A Boy in Church 


77 


Corporal Stare 


79 


The Assault Heroic 


81 


The Poet in the Nursery 


84 


In the Wilderness 


87 


Cherry-Time 


89 


1915 


91 


Free Verse 


92 



To an Ungentle Critic 

The great sun sinks behind the town 
Through a red mist of Volnay wine, . . 
But what's the use of setting down 
That glorious blaze behind the town? 
You'll only skip the page, you'll look 
For newer pictures in this book; 
You've read of sunsets rich as mine. 

A fresh wind fills the evening air 
With horrid crying of night birds. . . . 
But what reads new or curious there 
When cold winds fly across the air? 
You'll only frown; you'll turn the page, 
But find no glimpse of your '^ New Age 
Of Poetry " in my worn-out words. 

Must winds that cut like blades of steel 
And sunsets swimming in Volnay, 

[I] 



The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, 
Die stillborn, because old men squeal 
For something new: " Write something new 
We've read this poem — that one too, 
And twelve more like 'em yesterday"? 

No, no ! my chicken, I shall scrawl 

Just what I fancy as I strike it, 

Fairies and Fusiliers, and all 

Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl 

Across my verse in the classic way. 

And, sir, be careful what you say; 

There are old-fashioned folk still like it. 



[2] 



An Old Twenty-third Man 

" Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo 

mine, 
Marching below, and we still gulping wine? " 
From the sad magic of his fragrant cup 
The red-faced old centurion started up. 
Cursed, battered on the table. " No," he 

said, 
"Not that! The Three-and-Twentleth Le- 
gion's dead, 
Dead In the first year of this damned cam- 
paign — 
The Legion's dead, dead, and won't rise 

again. 
Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die, 
But we need pity also, you and I, 
Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss. 
Who live to see the Legion come to this, 
Unsoldlerlike, slovenly, bent on loot, 

[3] 



Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or 
shoot. 

O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy 
thigh I 

Where are they now ? God ! watch it strug- 
gle by. 

The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine. 

Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the 
wine ! '' 

*' Strabo," said Gracchus, '* you are strange 
to-night. 

The Legion is the Legion; it's all right. 

If these new men are slovenly, in your think- 
ing, 

God damn it ! you'll not better them by drink- 
ing. 

They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and 
hands. 

The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands. 

And these same men before the autumn's fall 

Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul." 



[4] 



To Lucasta on Going to the 
War — for the Fourth Time 

It doesn't matter what's the cause, 

What wrong they say we're righting, 
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws, 

When we're to do the fighting ! 
And since we lads are proud and true, 

What else remains to do ? 
Lucasta, when to France your man 
Returns his fourth time, hating war. 
Yet laughs as calmly as he can 

And flings an oath, but says no more, 
That Is not courage, that's not fear — 
Lucasta he's a Fusilier, 

And his pride sends him here. 

Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray. 
And so decide who started 

[5] 



This bloody war, and who's to pay, 

But he must be stout-hearted, 
Must sit and stake with quiet breath, 

Playing at cards with Death. 
Don't plume yourself he fights for you; 
It is no courage, love, or hate. 
But let us do the things we do; 

It's pride that makes the heart be great; 
It is not anger, no, nor fear — 
Lucasta he's a Fusilier, 

And his pride keeps him here. 



[6] 



Two Fusiliers 

And have we done with War at last? 
Well, we've been lucky devils both, 
And there's no need of pledge or oath 
To bind our lovely friendship fast, 
By firmer stuff 
Close bound enough. 

By wire and wood and stake we're bound, 

By Fricourt and by Festubert, 

By whipping rain, by the sun's glare, 

By all the misery and loud soimJ 

By a Spring day, 

By Picard clay. 

Show me the two so closely bound 
As we, by the red bond of blood, 
By friendship, blossoming from mud. 
By Death : we faced him, and we found 
Beauty in Death, 
In dead men breath. 

[7] 



To Robert Nichols 

(From Frise on the Somme in February, 191 7, in an- 
swer to a letter saying: "I am just finishing my 'Faun's 
Holiday.' I wish you were here to feed him with 
cherries.") 

Here by a snowbound river 
In scrapen holes we shiver, 
And like old bitterns we 
Boom to you plaintively: 
Robert, how can I rhyme 
Verses for your desire — 
Sleek fauns and cherry-time. 
Vague music and green trees, 
Hot sun and gentle breeze, 
England in June attire. 
And life born young again, 
For your gay goatish brute 
Drunk with warm melody 
Singing on beds of thyme 
[8] 



With red and rolling eye, 
Waking with wanton lute 
All the Devonian plain, 
Lips dark with juicy stain. 
Ears hung with bobbing fruit? 
Why should I keep him time ? 
Why in this cold and rime, 
Where even to dream is pain? 
No, Robert, there's no reason: 
Cherries are out of season, 
Ice grips at branch and root. 
And singing birds are mute. 



[9] 



Dead Cow Farm 

An ancient saga tells us how 
In the beginning the First Cow 
(For nothing living yet had birth 
But Elemental Cow on earth) 
Began to lick cold stones and mud: 
Under her warm tongue flesh and blood 
Blossomed, a miracle to believe: 
And so was Adam born, and Eve. 
Here now is chaos once again. 
Primeval mud, cold stones and rain. 
Here flesh decays and blood drips red, 
And the Cow's dead, the old Cow's dead. 



[lO] 



Goliath and David 

(For D. C. T., killed at Fricourt, 
March, 191 6.) 

Yet once an earlier David took 
Smooth pebbles from the brook: 
Out between the lines he went 
To that one-sided tournament, 
A shepherd boy who stood out fine 
And young to fight a Philistine 
Clad all In brazen mall. He swears 
That he's killed lions, he's killed bears, 
And those that scorn the God of ZIon 
Shall perish so like bear or Hon. 
But . . . the historian of that fight 
Had not the heart to tell It right. 

Striding within javelin range, 
Goliath marvels at this strange 

[II] 



Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength. 

David's clear eye measures the length; 

With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee, 

Poises a moment thoughtfully, 

And hurls with a long vengeful swing. 

The pebble, humming from the sling 

Like a wild bee, flies a sure line 

For the forehead of the Philistine ; 

Then . . . but there comes a brazen clink. 

And quicker than a man can think 

Goliath's shield parries each cast. 

Clang ! clang I and clang I was David's last. 

Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye, 

Towering unhurt six cubits high. 

Says foolish David, " Damn your shield 1 

And damn my sling I but I'll not yield.'' 

He takes his staff of Mamre oak, 

A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke 

The skull of many a wolf and fox 

Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks. 

Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh 

Can scatter chariots like blown chaff 

To rout; but David, calm and brave. 

Holds his ground, for God will save. 

[12] 



Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh I 

Shame for beauty's overthrow! 

(God's eyes are dim. His ears are shut.) 

One cruel backhand sabre-cut — 

" I'm hit! I'm killed! " young David cries, 

Throws blindly forward, chokes . . . and 

dies. 
And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim, 
Goliath straddles over him. 



[13] 



Babylon 

The child alone a poet Is: 

Spring and Fairyland are his. 

Truth and Reason show but dim, 

And all's poetry with him. 

Rhyme and music flow In plenty 

For the lad of one-and-twenty, 

But Spring for him Is no more now 

Than daisies to a munching cow; 

Just a cheery pleasant season, 

Daisy buds to live at ease on. 

He's forgotten how he smiled 

And shrieked at snowdrops when a child, 

Or wept one evening secretly 

For April's glorious misery. 

Wisdom made him old and wary 

Banishing the Lords of Faery. 

Wisdom made a breach and battered 

Babylon to bits : she scattered 

[14] 



To the hedges and ditches 
All our nursery gnomes and witches. 
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, 
Drag their treasures from the shelves. 
Jack the Giant-killer's gone, 
Mother Goose and Oberon, 
Bluebeard and King Solomon. 
Robin, and Red Riding Hood 
Take together to the wood. 
And Sir Galahad lies hid 
In a cave with Captain KIdd. 
None of all the magic hosts. 
None remain but a few ghosts 
Of timorous heart, to linger on 
Weeping for lost Babylon. 



[15] 



Mr. Philosopher 

Old Mr. Philosopher 

Comes for Ben and Claire, 

An ugly man, a tall man, 
With bright-red hair. 

The books that he's written 

No one can read. 
" In fifty years they'll understand 

Now there's no need. 

" All that matters now 

Is getting the fun. 
Come along, Ben and Claire; 

Plenty to be done." 

Then old Philosopher, 
Wisest man alive, 
[i6] 



Plays at Lions and Tigers 
Down along the drive — 

Gambolling fiercely 

Through bushes and grass, 
Making monstrous mouths, 

Braying like an ass, 

Twisting buttercups 

In his orange hair, 
Hopping like a kangaroo. 

Growling like a bear. 

Right up to tea-time 

They frolic there. 
" My legs are wingle," 

Says Ben to Claire. 



[17] 



The Cruel Moon 

The cruel Moon hangs out of reach 

Up above the shadowy beech. 

Her face is stupid, but her eye 

Is small and sharp and very sly. 

Nurse says the Moon can drive you mad? 

No, that's a silly story, lad! 

Though she be angry, though she would 

Destroy all England if she could. 

Yet think, what damage can she do 

Hanging there so far from you? 

Don't heed what frightened nurses say: 

Moons hang much too far away. 



[i8] 



Finland 

Feet and faces tingle 

In that frore land: 
Legs wobble and go wingle, 

You scarce can stand. 

The skies are jewelled all around, 

The ploughshare snaps In the Iron ground, 

The Finn with face like paper 

And eyes like a lighted taper 

Hurls his rough rune 

At the wintry moon 

And stamps to mark the tune. 



[19] 



A Pinch of Salt 

When a dream is born in you 
With a sudden clamorous pain, 

When you know the dream is true 
And lovely, with no flaw nor stain, 

O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch 

You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so 
much. 

Dreams are like a bird that mocks, 
Flirting the feathers of his tail. 
When you seize at the salt-box 

Over the hedge you'll see him sail. 
Old birds are neither caught with salt nor 

chaff: 
They watch you from the apple bough and 
laugh. 

[20] 



Poet, never chase the dream. 

Laugh yourself and turn away. 
Mask your hunger, let it seem 

Small matter if he come or stay; 
But when he nestles in your hand at last, 
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast. 



[21] 



The Caterpillar 

Under this loop of honeysuckle, 

A creeping, coloured caterpillar, 

I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, 

I nibble it leaf by leaf away. 

Down beneath grow dandelions. 
Daisies, old-man's-looking-glasses ; 
Rooks flap croaking across the lane. 
I eat and swallow and eat again. 



Here come raindrops helter-skelter; 
I munch and nibble unregarding: 
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm. 
I'll mind my business: Fm a good worm. 

When Fm old, tired, melancholy, 
Fll build a leaf-green mausoleum 

[22] 



Close by, here on this lovely spray, 
And die and dream the ages away. 

Some say worms win resurrection, 

With white wings beating flitter-flutter. 

But wings or a sound sleep, why should I 

care? 
Either way I'll miss my share. 

Under this loop of honeysuckle, 

A hungry, hairy caterpillar, 

I crawl on my high and swinging seat. 

And eat, eat, eat — as one ought to eat. 



[23] 



Sorley 's Weather 

When outside the icy rain 
Comes leaping helter-skelter, 

Shall I tie my restive brain 
Snugly under shelter? 

Shall I make a gentle song 

Here in my firelit study, 
When outside the winds blow strong 

And the lanes are muddy? 

With old wine and drowsy meats 

Am I to fill my belly? 
Shall I glutton here with Keats? 

Shall I drink with Shelley? 

Tobacco's pleasant, firelight's good: 
Poetry makes both better. 

[24] 



Clay Is wet and so Is mud, 
Winter rains are wetter. 

Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill, 
For though the winds come f rorely, 

I'm away to the rain-blown hill 
And the ghost of Sorley. 



[25] 



The Cottage 

Here In turn succeed and rule 
Carter, smith, and village fool, 
Then again the place is known 
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school; 
Now somehow it's come to me 
To light the fire and hold the key, 
Here in Heaven to reign alone. 

All the walls are white with lime. 
Big blue periwinkles climb 
And kiss the crumbling window-sill; 
Snug inside I sit and rhyme, 
Planning, poem, book, or fable. 
At my darling beech-wood table 
Fresh with bluebells from the hill. 

Through the window I can see 
Rooks above the cherry-tree, 

[26] 



Sparrows In the violet bed, 
Bramble-bush and bumble-bee, 
And old red bracken smoulders still 
Among boulders on the hill, 
Far too bright to seem quite dead. 

But old Death, who can't forget, 
Walts his time and watches yet, 
Walts and watches by the door. 
Look, he's got a great new net. 
And when my fighting starts afresh 
Stouter cord and smaller mesh 
Won't be cheated as before. 

Nor can kindliness of Spring, 
Flowers that smile nor birds that sing, 
Bumble-bee nor butterfly. 
Nor grassy hill nor anything 
Of magic keep me safe to rhyme 
In this Heaven beyond my time. 
No ! for Death Is waiting by. 



[27] 



The hast Post 

The bugler sent a call of high romance — 
'* Lights out! Lights out! " to the deserted 

square. 
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, 
" God, If It's Ms for me next time in 

France . . . 
O spare the phantom bugle as I He 
Dead In the gas and smoke and roar of guns, 
Dead In a row with the other broken ones 
Lying so stiff and still under the sky, 
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die." 



[28] 



When Fm Killed 

When I'm killed, don't think of me 

Buried there in Cambrin Wood, 

Nor as in Zion think of me 

With the Intolerable Good. 

And there's one thing that I know well, 

I'm damned if I'll be damned to Hell I 

So when I'm killed, don't wait for me, 
Walking the dim corridor; 
In Heaven or Hell, don't wait for me, 
Or you must wait for evermore. 
You'll find me buried, living-dead 
In these verses that you've read. 

So when I'm killed, don't mourn for me, 
Shot, poor lad, so bold and young, 
Killed and gone — don't mourn for me. 
On your lips my life is hung: 
O friends and lovers, you can save 
Your playfellow from the grave. 

[29] 



Letter to S. S. from Mametz 
Wood 

I NEVER dreamed we'd meet that day 
In our old haunts down Fricourt way, 
Plotting such marvellous journeys there 
For jolly old " Apres-la-guerre." 

Well, when it's over, first we'll meet 
At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat 
In Wales, a curious little shop 
With two rooms and a roof on top, 
A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet 
That never needs a crowd to fill it. 
But oh, the country round about! 
The sort of view that makes you shout 
For want of any better way 
Of praising God: there's a blue bay 
Shining in front, and on the right 
Snowden and Hebog capped with white, 

[30] 



And lots of other jolly peaks 
That you could wonder at for weeks, 
With jag and spur and hump and cleft. 
There's a grey castle on the left, 
And back in the high Hinterland 
You'll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand, 
Who slew the savage Buffaloon 
By the Nant-col one night in June, 
And won his surname from the horn 
Of this prodigious unicorn. 
Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower, 
Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr, 
Close there after a four years' chase 
From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace, 
The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay 
And growled and fought and passed away. 
You'll see where mountain conies grapple 
With prayer and creed in their rock chapel 
Which Ben and Claire once built for them; 
They call it Soar Bethlehem. 
You'll see where in old Roman days, 
Before Revivals changed our ways. 
The Virgin 'scaped the Devil's grab, 
Printing her foot on a stone slab 
[31] 



With five clear toe-marks; and you'll find 

The fiendish thumbprint close behind. 

You'll see where Math, Mathonwy's son, 

Spoke with the wizard Gwydion 

And bad him from South Wales set out 

To steal that creature with the snout, 

That new-discovered grunting beast 

Divinely flavoured for the feast. 

No traveller yet has hit upon 

A wilder land than Meirion, 

For desolate hills and tumbling stones, 

Bogland and melody and old bones. 

Fairies and ghosts are here galore, 

And poetry most splendid, more 

Than can be written with the pen 

Or understood by common men. 

In Gweithdy Bach we'll rest awhile, 
We'll dress our wounds and learn to smile 
With easier lips; we'll stretch our legs, 
And live on bilberry tart and eggs, 
And store up solar energy. 
Basking in sunshine by the sea, 

[32] 



Until we feel a match once more 
For anything but another war. 

So then we'll kiss our families, 
And sail across the seas 
(The God of Song protecting us) 
To the great hills of Caucasus. 
Robert will learn the local bat 
For billeting and things like that, 
If Siegfried learns the piccolo 
To charm the people as we go. 

The jolly peasants clad in furs 

Will greet the Welch-ski officers 

With open arms, and ere we pass 

Will make us vocal with Kavasse. 

In old Bagdad we'll call a halt 

At the Sashuns' ancestral vault; 

We'll catch the Persian rose-flowers' scent, 

And understand what Omar meant. 

Bitlis and Mush will know our faces, 

Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places. 

Perhaps eventually we'll get 

Among the Tartars of Thibet, 

[33] 



Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings, 
And doing wild, tremendous things 
In free adventure, quest and fight, 
And God ! what poetry we'll write ! 



[34] 



A Dead Boche 

To you who'd read my songs of War 
And only hear of blood and fame, 

I'll say (you've heard it said before) 

" War's Hell ! " and if you doubt the same, 

To-day I found in Mametz Wood 

A certain cure for lust of blood: 

Where, propped against a shattered trunk, 
In a great mess of things unclean. 

Sat a dead Boche ; he scowled and stunk 
With clothes and face a sodden green, 

Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired. 

Dribbling black blood from nose and beard. 



[35] 



Faun 

Here down this very way, 
Here only yesterday 

King Faun went leaping. 
He sang, with careless shout 
Hurling his name about; 
He sang, with oaken stock 
His steps from rock to rock 

In safety keeping, 
" Here Faun is free, 
Here Faun is free I " 

To-day against yon pine. 
Forlorn yet still divine. 

King Faun leant weeping. 
** They drank my holy brook, 
My strawberries they took, 
My private path they trod." 
Loud wept the desolate God, 

[36] 



Scorn on scorn heaping, 
'* Faun, what is he. 
Faun, what is he ? *' 



[37] 



The Spoilsport 

My familiar ghost again 

Comes to see what he can see, 

Critic, son of Conscious Brain, 
Spying on our privacy. 

Slam the window, bolt the door, 

Yet heUI enter in and stay; 
In to-morrow's book he'll score 

Indiscretions of to-day. 

Whispered love and muttered fears, 

How their echoes fly about ! 
None escape his watchful ears, 

Every sigh might be a shout. 

No kind words nor angry cries 
Turn away this grim spoilsport; 

No fine lady's pleading eyes, 

Neither love, nor hate, nor . . . port. 

[38] 



Critic wears no smile of fun, 

Speaks no word of blame nor praise, 
Counts our kisses one by one, 

Notes each gesture, every phrase. 

My familiar ghost again 

Stands or squats where suits him best; 
Critic, son of Conscious Brain, 

Listens, watches, takes no rest. 



[39] 



The Shivering Beggar 

Near Clapham village, where fields began, 

Saint Edward met a beggar man. 

It was Christmas morning, the church bells 

tolled. 
The old man trembled for the fierce cold. 

Saint Edward cried, " It is monstrous sin 
A beggar to lie in rags so thin ! 
An old grey-beard and the frost so keen : 
I shall give him my fur-lined gaberdine." 

He stripped off his gaberdine of scarlet 
And wrapped it round the aged varlet, 
Who clutched at the folds with a muttered 

curse, 
Quaking and chattering seven times worse. 

Said Edward, " Sir, it would seem you freeze 
Most bitter at your extremities. 

[40] 



Here are gloves and shoes and stockings also, 
That warm upon your way you may go." 

The man took stocking and shoe and glove, 
Blaspheming Christ our Saviour's love. 
Yet seemed to find but little relief, 
Shaking and shivering like a leaf. 

Said the saint again, '' I have no great riches, 
Yet take this tunic, take these breeches. 
My shirt and my vest, take everything. 
And give due thanks to Jesus the King." 

The saint stood naked upon the snow 

Long miles from where he was lodged at 

Bowe, 
Praying, ** O God I my faith. It grows faint I 
This would try the temper of any saint. 

*' Make clean my heart. Almighty, I pray, 
And drive these sinful thoughts away. 
Make clean my heart If It be Thy will. 
This damned old rascal's shivering still! " 

[41] 



He stooped, he touched the beggar man's 

shoulder; 
He asked him did the frost nip colder? 
** Frost! " said the beggar, '' no, stupid lad! 
'Tis the palsy makes me shiver so bad." 



[42] 



Jonah 

A PURPLE whale 
Proudly sweeps his tall 
Towards Nineveh; 
Glassy green 
Surges between 
A mile of roaring sea. 

*' O town of gold, 

Of splendour multifold, 

Lucre and lust. 

Leviathan's eye 

Can surely spy 

Thy doom of death and dust/* 

On curving sands 
Vengeful Jonah stands. 
" Yet forty days, 
Then down, down, 

[43] 



Tumbles the town 

In flaming ruin ablaze." 

With swift lament 

Those Ninevites repent. 

They cry in tears, 

'' Our hearts fail I 

The whale, the whale I 

Our sins prick us like spears." 

Jonah is vexed; 

He cries, " What next? what next? " 

And shakes his fist. 

" Stupid cityj 

The shame, the pity, 

The glorious crash I've missed." 

Away goes Jonah grumbling, 
Murmuring and mumbling; 
Off ploughs the purple whale, 
With disappointed tail. 



[44] 



John Skelton 

What could be dafter 

Than John Skelton's laughter? 

What sound more tenderly 

Than his pretty poetry? 

So where to rank old Skelton? 

He was no monstrous Milton, 

Nor wrote no " Paradise Lost," 

So wondered at by most. 

Phrased so disdainfully. 

Composed so painfully. 

He struck what Milton missed, 

Milling an English grist 

With homely turn and twist. 

He was English through and through. 

Not Greek, nor French, nor Jew, 

Though well their tongues he knew, 

The living and the dead: 

Learned Erasmus said, 

[45] 



Hie ^iiniim Britannic arum 

Lumen et deeus literarum. 

But oh, Colin Clout ! 

How his pen flies about, 

Twiddling and turning, 

Scorching and burning, 

Thrusting and thrumming! 

How It hurries with humming. 

Leaping and running. 

At the tipsy-topsy Tunning 

Of Mistress Eleanor Humming! 

How for poor Philip Sparrow 

Was murdered at Carow, 

How our hearts he does harrow 

Jest and grief mingle 

In this jangle-jingle, 

For he will not stop 

To sweep nor mop. 

To prune nor prop. 

To cut each phrase up 

Like beef when we sup. 

Nor sip at each line 

As at brandy-wine, 

Or port when we dine. 

[46] 



But angrily, wittily, 
Tenderly, prettily. 
Laughingly, learnedly, 
Sadly, madly, 
Helter-skelter John 
Rhymes serenely on, 
As English poets should. 
Old John, you do me good ! 



[47] 



/ Wonder What It Feels 
Like to be Drowned? 

Look at my knees, 

That Island rising from the steamy seas ! 

The candles a tall lightship; my two hands 

Are boats and barges anchored to the sands, 

With mighty cliffs all round; 

They're full of wine and riches from far 

lands. . . . 
/ wonder what it feels like to be drowned? 

I can make caves, 

By lifting up the island and huge waves 

And storms, and then with head and ears well 

under 
Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like 

thunder, 
A bull-of-Bashan sound. 
[48] 



The seas run high and the boats split asun- 
der. . . . 
/ wonder what it feels like to be drowned? 

The thin soap slips 

And slithers like a shark under the ships. 

My toes are on the soap-dish — that's the 

effect 
Of my huge storms; an Iron steamer's 

wrecked. 
The soap slides round and round; 
He's biting the old sailors, I expect. . . . 
/ wonder what it feels like to he drowned? 



[49] 



Double Red Daisies 

Double red daisies, they're my flowers, 

Which nobody else may grow. 
In a big quarrelsome house like ours 

They try It sometimes — but no, 
I root them up because they're my flowers. 

Which nobody else may grow. 

Claire has a tea-rose^ hut she didn't plant it; 
Ben has an iris, hut I don't want it. 
Daisies J douhle red daisies for me, 
The beautifulest flowers in the garden. 

Double red daisy, that's my mark: 

I paint it In all my books ! 
It's carved high up on the beech-tree bark, 

How neat and lovely it looks ! 
So don't forget that it's my trade mark; 

Don't copy it in your books. 

[50] 



Claire has a tea-rose^ hut she didn't plant it; 
Ben has an iris, but I don't want it. 
Daisies, double red daisies for me, 
The beautifulest flowers in the garden. 



[51] 



Careers 

Father is quite the greatest poet 
That ever lived anywhere. 

You say you're going to write great music — 
I chose that first: it's unfair. 

Besides, now I can't be the greatest painter 
and do Christ and angels, or lovely 
pears and apples and grapes on a 
green dish, or storms at sea, or any- 
thing lovely. 

Because that's been taken by Claire. 

It's stupid to be an engine-driver, 
And soldiers are horrible men. 

I won't be a tailor, I won't be a sailor, 
And gardener's taken by Ben. 

It's unfair if you say that you'll write great 
music, you horrid, you unkind (I sim- 

[52] 



ply loathe you, though you arc my 
sister), you beast, cad, coward, cheat, 
bully, liar I 
Well ? Say what's left for me then I 

But we won't go to your ugly music. 

(Listen!) Ben will garden and dig. 

And Claire will finish her wondrous pictures 
All flaming and splendid and big. 

And I'll be a perfectly marvellous carpenter, 
and I'll make cupboards and benches 
and tables and . . . and baths, and 
nice wooden boxes for studs and 
money. 

And you'll be jealous, you pig I 



[53] 



Fd Love to be a Fairy 's 
Child 

Children born of fairy stock 
Never need for shirt or frock, 
Never want for food or fire, 
Always get their heart's desire: 
Jingle pockets full of gold. 
Marry when they're seven years old. 
Every fairy child may keep 
Two strong ponies and ten sheep; 
All have houses, each his own. 
Built of brick or granite stone ; 
They live on cherries, they run wild — 
I'd love to be a Fairy's child. 



[54] 



The Next War 

You young friskies who to-day 

Jump and fight In Father's hay 

With bows and arrows and wooden spears, 

Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers, 

Happy though these hours you spend. 

Have they warned you how games end? 

Boys, from the first time you prod 

And thrust with spears of curtain-rod. 

From the first time you tear and slash 

Your long-bows from the garden ash, 

Or fit your shaft with a blue jay feather, 

Binding the split tops together. 

From that same hour by fate you're bound 

As champions of this stony ground. 

Loyal and true In everything, 

To serve your Army and your King, 

Prepared to starve and sweat and die 

Under some fierce foreign sky, 



If only to keep safe those joys 

That belong to British boys, 

To keep young Prussians from the soft 

Scented hay of father's loft, 

And stop young Slavs from cutting bows 

And bendy spears from Welsh hedgerows. 

Another War soon gets begun, 
A dirtier, a more glorious one; 
Then, boys, you'll have to play, all in; 
It's the cruellest team will win. 
So hold your nose against the stink 
And never stop too long to think. 
Wars don't change except in name ; 
The next one must go just the same, 
And new foul tricks unguessed before 
Will win and justify this War. 
Kaisers and Czars will strut the stage 
Once more with pomp and greed and rage; 
Courtly ministers will stop 
At home and fight to the last drop ; 
By the million men will die 
In some new horrible agony; 
And children here will thrust and poke, 

[56] 



Shoot and die, and laugh at the joke, 
With bows and arrows and wooden spears, 
Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers. 



[57] 



Strong Beer 



" What do you think 
The bravest drink 
Under the sky? " 
" Strong beer," said I. 

" There's a place for everything, 
Everything, anything, 
There's a place for everything 
Where it ought to be : 
For a chicken, the hen's wing; 
For poison, the bee's sting; 
For almond-blossom, Spring; 
A beerhouse for me." 

*' There's a prize for everyone. 
Everyone, anyone, 
There's a prize for everyone, 
Whoever he may be : 

[58] 



Crags for the mountaineer, 
Flags for the Fusilier, 
For English poets, beer ! 
Strong beer for me I " 

" Tell us, now, how and when 
We may find the bravest men? " 
'' A sure test, an easy test: 
Those that drink beer are the best. 
Brown beer strongly brewed, 
English drink and English food." 

Oh, never choose as Gideon chose 
By the cold well, but rather those 
Who look on beer when it is brown, 
Smack their lips and gulp it down. 
Leave the lads who tamely drink 
With Gideon by the water brink. 
But search the benches of the Plough, 
The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow, 
For jolly rascal lads who pray. 
Pewter in hand, at close of day, 
*' Teach me to live that I may fear 
The grave as little as my beer." 
[59] 



Marigolds 



With a fork drive Nature out, 
She will ever yet return; 

Hedge the flowerbed all about, 
Pull or stab or cut or burn, 
She will ever yet return. 

Look: the constant marigold 

Springs again from hidden roots. 

Baffled gardener, you behold 
New beginnings and new shoots 
Spring again from hidden roots. 
Pull or stab or cut or burn, 
They will ever yet return. 

Gardener, cursing at the weed. 
Ere you curse It further, say: 

Who but you planted the seed 
In my fertile heart, one day? 

[60] 



Ere you curse me further, say I 
New beginnings and new shoots 
Spring again from hidden roots. 
Pull or stab or cut or burn, 
Love must ever yet return. 



[6i] 



The Lady Visitor in the 
Pauper Ward 

Why do you break upon this old, cool peace, 

This painted peace of ours, 

With harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese, 

With garish flowers? 

Why do you churn smooth waters rough 

again. 
Selfish old skin-and-bone? 
Leave us to quiet dreaming and slow pain, 
Leave us alone. 



[62] 



JLove and Black Magic 

To the woods, to the woods is the wizard 

gone; 
In his grotto the maiden sits alone. 
She gazes up with a weary smile 
At the rafter-hanging crocodile, 
The slowly swinging crocodile. 
Scorn has she of her master's gear, 
Cauldron, alembic, crystal sphere. 
Phial, philtre — " Fiddlededee 
For all such trumpery trash ! " quo' she. 
" A soldier is the lad for me; 
Hey and hither, my lad! 

" Oh, here have I ever lain forlorn: 
My father died ere I was born. 
Mother was by a wizard wed. 
And oft I wish I had died instead — 
Often I wish I were long time dead. 



But, delving deep in my master's lore, 
I have won of magic power such store 
I can turn a skull — oh, fiddlededee 
For all this curious craft! " quo' she. 
*' A soldier is the lad for me; 
Hey and hither, my lad I 

" To bring my brave boy unto my arms. 
What need have I of magic charms — 
' Abracadabra ! ' and ' Prestopuff ' ? 
I have but to wish, and that is enough. 
The charms are vain, one wish is enough. 
My master pledged my hand to a wizard; 
Transformed would I be to toad or lizard 
If e'er he guessed — but fiddlededee 
For a black-browed sorcerer, now," quo' she. 
'* Let Cupid smile and the fiend must flee; 
Hey and hither, my lad." 



[64] 



Smoke-Rings 

Boy 

Most venerable and learned sir, 
Tall and true Philosopher, 
These rings of smoke you blow all day 
With such deep thought, what sense have 
they? 

Philosopher 
Small friend, with prayer and meditation 
I make an image of Creation. 
And if your mind is working nimble 
Straightway you'll recognize a symbol 
Of the endless and eternal ring 
Of God, who girdles everything — 
God, who in His own form and plan 
Moulds the fugitive life of man. 
These vaporous toys you watch me make. 



That shoot ahead, pause, turn and break — 

Some ghde far out Hke sailing ships, 

Some weak ones fail me at my lips. 

He who ringed His awe in smoke. 

When He led forth His captive folk, 

In like manner, East, West, North, and 

South, 
Blows us ring-wise from His mouth. 



[66] 



A Child's Nightmare 

Through long nursery nights he stood 
By my bed unwearying, 
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer. 
Purring in my haunted ear 
That same hideous nightmare thing. 
Talking, as he lapped my blood, 
In a voice cruel and flat, 
Saying for ever, " Cat! . . . Cat! 
Cat! . . ." 

That one word was all he said. 
That one word through all my sleep. 
In monotonous mock despair. 
Nonsense may be light as air. 
But there's Nonsense that can keep 
Horror bristling round the head, 
When a voice cruel and flat 
Says for ever, "Cat! . . . Cat! 
Cat! . . ." 

[67] 



He had faded, he was gone 
Years ago with Nursery Land, 
When he leapt on me again 
From the clank of a night train. 
Overpowered me foot and head. 
Lapped my blood, while on and on 
The old voice cruel and flat 
Purred for ever, "Cat! . . . Cat! . . . 
Cat! . . ;' 

Morphia drowsed, again I lay 
In a crater by High Wood: 
He was there with straddling legs. 
Staring eyes as big as eggs. 
Purring as he lapped my blood. 
His black bulk darkening the day. 
With a voice cruel and flat, 
"Cat! . . . Cat! . . . Cat! . . ."he said, 
"Cat! . . . Cat! . . ." 

When I'm shot through heart and head, 
And there's no choice but to die, 
The last word I'll hear, no doubt. 
Won't be " Charge ! " or " Bomb them out ! " 
[68] 



Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry, 

'' Let that body be, he's dead! " 

But a voice cruel and flat 

Saying for ever, " Cat I . . . Cat! . . . Cat! 



[69] 



Escape 



{August 6, 1916. — Officer previously reported died of 
wounds, now reported wounded : Graves, Captain R., 
Royal Welch Fusiliers.) 

. . . But I was dead, an hour or more. 
I woke when I'd already passed the door 
That Cerberus guards, and half-way down 

the road 
To Lethe, as an old Greek signpost showed. 
Above me, on my stretcher swinging by, 
I saw new stars in the subterrene sky: 
A Cross, a Rose in bloom, a Cage with bars. 
And a barbed Arrow feathered in fine stars. 
I felt the vapours of forgetfulness 
Float in my nostrils. Oh, may Heaven bless 
Dear Lady Proserpine, who saw me wake. 
And, stooping over me, for Henna's sake 
Cleared my poor buzzing head and sent m.e 

back 

[70] 



Breathless, with leaping heart along the 

track. 
After me roared and clattered angry hosts 
Of demons, heroes, and policeman-ghosts. 
*'LifeI life I I can't be dead I I won't be 

dead! 
Damned if I'll die for anyone I " I said. . . . 

Cerberus stands and grins above me now, 

Wearing three heads — lion, and lynx, and 
sow. 

** Quick, a revolver ! But my Webley's gone. 

Stolen I . . . No bombs ... no knife. . . . 
The crowd swarms on. 

Bellows, hurls stones. . . . Not even a hon- 
eyed sop . . . 

Nothing. . . . Good Cerberus 1 . . . Good 
dog I . . . but stop I 

Stay! ... A great luminous thought . . . 
I do believe 

There's still some morphia that I bought on 
leave." 

Then swiftly Cerberus' wide mouths I cram 

With army biscuit smeared with ration jam; 

[71] 



And sleep lurks In the luscious plum and 

apple. 
He crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to 

grapple 
With the all-powerful poppy . . . then a 

snore, 
A crash; the beast blocks up the corridor 
With monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun — 
Too late ! for I've sped through. 
O Life ! O Sun ! 



[72] 



The Bough of Nonsense 

An Idyll 

Back from the Somme two Fusiliers > 
Limped painfully home; the elder said, 
5. " Robert, I've lived three thousand years 
This Summer, and I'm nine parts dead." 
R. " But if that's truly so," I cried, " quick, 
now, 
Through these great oaks and see the 
famous bough 

" Where once a nonsense built her nest 
With skulls and flowers and all things 

queer, 
In an old boot, with patient breast 
Hatching three eggs; and the next 
year . . ." 
iS. " Foaled thirteen squamous young be- 
neath, and rid 

[73] 



Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, 
she did." 

Said he, '* Before this quaint mood fails. 
We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn," 
R. " Hanging it up with monkey tails 

In a deep grove all hushed and dim. . . ." 
S. " To glorious yellow-bunched banana- 
trees," 
R. " Planted in dreams by pious Portu- 
guese," 

S. *' Which men are wise beyond their time. 

And worship nonsense, no one more." 
R. " Hard by, among old quince and lime, 
They've built a temple with no floor," 
S, '' And whosoever worships in that place. 
He disappears from sight and leaves no 
trace." 

R. " Once the Galatians built a fane 

To Sense : what duller God than that? " 

S. *' But the first day of autumn rain 

The roof fell in and crushed them flat." 

[74] 



R. " Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls 
When nonsense is foundation for the 
walls." 

I tell him old Galatian tales; 

He caps them in quick Portuguese, 

While phantom creatures with green 

scales 
Scramble and roll among the trees. 
The hymn swells; on a bough above us 

sings 
A row of bright pink birds, flapping their 

wings. 



[75] 



Not Dead 

Walking through trees to cool my heat and 

pain, 
I know that David's with me here again. 
All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. 
Caressingly I stroke 
Rough bark of the friendly oak. 
A brook goes bubbling by : the voice is his. 
Turf burns with pleasant smoke; 
I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. 
All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. 
Over the whole wood in a little while 
Breaks his slow smile. 



[76] 



A Boy in Church 

'' Gabble-gabble, . . . brethren, . . . gab- 
ble-gabble!" 

My window frames forest and heather. 
I hardly hear the tuneful babble, 

Not knowing nor much caring whether 
The text is praise or exhortation, 
Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation. 

Outside it blows wetter and wetter, 
The tossing trees never stay still. 

I shift my elbows to catch better 

The full round sweep of heathered hill. 

The tortured copse bends to and fro 

In silence like a shadow-show. 

The parson's voice runs like a river 

Over smooth rocks. I like this church: 

[77] 



The pews are staid, they never shiver, 
They never bend or sway or lurch. 
** Prayer,'^ says the kind voice, *' is a chain 
That draws down Grace from Heaven 
again." 

I add the hymns up, over and over, 
Until there's not the least mistake. 

Seven-seventy-one. (Look ! there's a plover I 
It's gone ! ) Who's that Saint by the lake ? 

The red light from his mantle passes 

Across the broad memorial brasses. 

It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking. 

Lolling and letting reason nod. 
With ugly serious people linking 

Sad prayers to a forgiving God. . . . 
But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying 
With furious zeal like madmen praying. 



[78] 



Corporal Stare 

Back from the line one night in June, 

I gave a dinner at Bethune — 

Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal 

Money could buy or batman steal. 

Five hungry lads welcomed the fish 

With shouts that nearly cracked the dish; 

Asparagus came with tender tops, 

Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops. 

Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook, 

" They'll put this in the history book.^' 

We bawled Church anthems in choro 

Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow, 

With drinking songs, a jolly sound 

To help the good red Pommard round. 

Stories and laughter interspersed. 

We drowned a long La Bassee thirst — 

Trenches in June make throats damned dry. 

Then through the window suddenly, 

[79] 



Badge, stripes and medals all complete, 
We saw him swagger up the street, 
Just like a live man — Corporal Stare ! 
Stare ! Killed last May at Festubert. 
Caught on patrol near the Boche wire. 
Torn horribly by machine-gun fire ! 
He paused, saluted smartly, grinned. 
Then passed away like a puff of wind. 
Leaving us blank astonishment. 
The song broke, up we started, leant 
Out of the window — nothing there. 
Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare, 
Only a quiver of smoke that showed 
A fag-end dropped on the silent road. 



[80] 



The Assault Heroic 

Down In the mud I lay, 
Tired out by my long day 
Of five damned days and nights, 
Five sleepless days and nights, . . . 
Dream-snatched, and set me where 
The dungeon of Despair 
Looms over Desolate Sea, 
Frowning and threatening me 
With aspect high and steep — 
A most malignant keep. 
My foes that lay within 
Shouted and made a din. 
Hooted and grinned and cried: 
'' To-day we've killed your pride ; 
To-day your ardour ends. 
We've murdered all your friends; 
We've undermined by stealth 
Your happiness and your health. 
[8i] 



We Ve taken away your hope ; 
Now you may droop and mope 
To misery and to Death." 
But with my spear of Faith, 
Stout as an oaken rafter, 
With my round shield of laughter, 
With my sharp, tongue-like sword 
That speaks a bitter word, 
I stood beneath the wall 
And there defied them all. 
The stones they cast I caught 
And alchemized with thought 
Into such lumps of gold 
As dreaming misers hold. 
The boiling oil they threw 
Fell in a shower of dew. 
Refreshing me; the spears 
Flew harmless by my ears. 
Struck quivering in the sod; 
There, like the prophet's rod, 
Put leaves out, took firm root, 
And bore me instant fruit. 
My foes were all astounded, 
Dumbstricken and confounded, 

[82] 



Gaping In a long row; 
They dared not thrust nor throw. 
Thus, then, I climbed a steep 
Buttress and won the keep, 
And laughed and proudly blew 
My horn, ''Stand to! Stand to! 
Wake up, sir! Here's a new 
Attack! Stand to! Stand to!'' 



[83] 



The Poet in the Nursery 

The youngest poet down the shelves was 
fumbling 
In a dim library, just behind the chair 
From which the ancient poet was mum-mum- 
bling 
A song about some Lovers at a Fair, 
Pulling his long white beard and gently 
grumbling 
That rhymes were beastly things and never 
there. 

And as I groped, the whole time I was think- 
ing 
About the tragic poem I'd been writ- 
ing, ... 

An old man's life of beer and whisky drink- 
ing, 

[84] 



His years of kidnapping and wicked fight- 
ing; 
And how at last, Into a fever sinking, 

Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting. 

But suddenly I saw the bright green cover 

Of a thin pretty book right down below; 

I snatched It up and turned the pages over, 

To find It full of poetry, and so 
Put It down my neck with quick hands like a 
lover, 
And turned to watch If the old man saw 
It go. 

The book was full of funny muddling mazes, 

Each rounded oE Into a lovely song, 
And most extraordinary and monstrous 
phrases 
Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's 
thong, 
And metre twisting like a chain of daisies 
With great big splendid words a sentence 
long. 

[85] 



I took the book to bed with me and gloated, 
Learning the lines that seemed to sound 
most grand ; 
So soon the pretty emerald green was coated 
With jam and greasy marks from my hot 
hand, 
While round the nursery for long months 
there floated 
Wonderful words no one could understand. 



[86] 



In the Wilderness 

Christ of His gentleness 
Thirsting and hungering, 
Walked in the wilderness; 
Soft words of grace He spoke 
Unto lost desert-folk 
That listened wondering. 
He heard the bitterns call 
From ruined palace-wall, 
Answered them brotherly. 
He held communion 
With the she-pelican 
Of lonely piety. 
Basilisk, cockatrice, 
Flocked to his homilies. 
With mail of dread device, 
With monstrous barbed slings, 
With eager dragon-eyes; 
Great rats on leather wings 

[87] 



And poor blind broken things, 
Foul In their miseries. 
And ever with Him went, 
Of all His wanderings 
Comrade, with ragged coat. 
Gaunt ribs — poor innocent — 
Bleeding foot, burning throat, 
The guileless old scapegoat; 
For forty nights and days 
Followed in Jesus' ways. 
Sure guard behind Him kept. 
Tears like a lover wept. 



[88] 



Cherry-time 



Cherries of the night are riper 

Than the cherries pluckt at noon 
Gather to your fairy piper 

When he pipes his magic tune: 
Merry, merry, 
Take a cherry; 
Mine are sounder, 
Mine are rounder, 
Mine are sweeter 
For the eater 
Under the moon. 
And you'll be fairies soon. 

In the cherry pluckt at night, 

With the dew of summer swelling, 

There's a juice of pure delight. 

Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling. 
Merry, merry, 

[89] 



Take a cherry; 
Mine are sounder, 
Mine are rounder, 
Mine are sweeter 
For the eater 
In the moonlight. 
And youUl be fairies quite. 

When I sound the fairy call, 

Gather here In silent meeting. 
Chin to knee on the orchard wall. 

Cooled with dew and cherries eating. 

Merry, merry. 

Take a cherry; 

Mine are sounder, 

Mine are rounder, 

Mine are sweeter 

For the eater 

When the dews fall. 
And you'll be fairies all. 



[90] 



1915 

I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so 

slow, 
In the fields between La Bassee and Bethune; 
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, 
Red poppy floods of June, 
August, and yellowing Autumn, so 
To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, 
And youVe been everything. 

Dear, you've been everything that I most lack 
In these soul-deadening trenches — pictures, 

books, 
Music, the quiet of an English wood, 
Beautiful comrade-looks. 
The narrow, bouldered mountain-track. 
The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and 

black. 
And Peace, and all that's good. 
[91] 



Free Verse 

I NOW delight 

In spite 

Of the might 

And the right 

Of classic tradition, 

In writing 

And reciting 

Straight ahead, 

Without let or omission. 

Just any little rhyme 

In any little time 

That runs In my head; 

Because, I've said, 

My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed 

Like Prussian soldiers on parade 

That march. 

Stiff as starch, 

Foot to foot, 

[92] 



Boot to boot, 

Blade to blade, 

Button to button, 

Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton. 

No ! No ! 

My rhymes must go 

Turn 'ee, twist 'ee, 

Twinkling, frosty, 

Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty; 

Rhymes I will make 

Like Keats and Blake 

And Christina Rossetti, 

With run and ripple and shake. 

How pretty 

To take 

A merry little rhyme 

In a jolly little time 

And poke it, 

And choke it. 

Change it, arrange it, 

Straight-lace it, deface it, 

Pleat it with pleats, 

Sheet it with sheets 

Of empty conceits, 

[93] 



And chop and chew, 

And hack and hew, 

And weld it into a uniform stanza, 

And evolve a neat, 

Complacent, complete. 

Academic extravaganza ! 



[94] 






FAIRIES 
4ND FUSILIERS 

POEMS BY 
ROBERT GR.^l'ES 



"1 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



014 676 018 1 



